


Candle

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dark, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:29:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3634950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir should’ve never given his father the ring, if not for Gondor’s sake, then for Faramir’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candle

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Rating for angst and incest, not actual sexy times.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“You will need a wife soon.”

The statement—not a question—is out of the blue, but his father’s mind has become scattered on the best of days, and Boromir isn’t particularly surprised. His plans are erratic, but his motives are always the same: the furthering of his own line, of the stewardship of Gondor. _How_ he will further it has become an amorphous thing, where Boromir’s own advice is inconsequential. At the rate things are going, Denethor could suggest that an orc guard is the best way to defend their borders, and Boromir wouldn’t be any more surprised. 

Disturbed, yes. But each time his mind pulls too hard at that threat, another part shuts him down, whisks into him like dark smoke and pulls him back, makes him sit and whispers: _this is for the best._ It’s for _Gondor._ And Boromir has never been good at resisting that temptation, nor disobeying his father’s word. 

Which is why he brought his father the _one ring to rule them all,_ and now he watches it dangle around Denethor’s neck over dinner, while the aging man sorts through raw meet with his hands. He doesn’t seem at all out of place with fresh blood running down his chin, and it irks Boromir’s appetite. Across the long table, he pushes vegetables around his plate and tries not to think of all the citizens outside their gate who starve. 

“You need to plant your seed,” Denethor mutters, evidently not put off by his son’s silence. Around a large mouthful that Boromir looks away from, he grunts, “You have a duty to Gondor, and to me, to not go to waste—and to not let yourself shrivel up from lack of use.” Boromir’s nose wrinkles; he doesn’t even want to think what that means. 

His mind flashes over the one person he would like to bury his seed inside—sun-kissed hair through his fingers, a playful smile against the scruff of his chin—but he isn’t foolish enough to examine the thought any further. He simply replies, “I have no interest in a wife, but I will impregnate a woman if you so demand it.”

Denethor’s fist slams down on the table. It makes a loud noise but little more: Denethor’s too weak, too old, too frail, even with the ring, to do as much damage as he’d like. Boromir looks sharply over all the same. “You need a lover,” Denethor snarls, all yellowing, mismatched teeth. “You are young. You need someone to sink your flesh into.” He says it with a strange burst of fire, which gives Boromir pause—an odd thing for his father, normally so withered away, to fill with passion over something not for power. ...Or perhaps sex is power to him, though Boromir hopes he won’t carry that cycle. 

He wants to say that his training keeps him healthy and even-tempered enough. But then he hears footsteps down the long hall perpendicular to their chamber and their table, and he turns his head to watch. 

After many clamorous steps—hard boots along the stone floor—two guards emerge, faceless men Boromir no longer recognizes through the changes his father’s made. They drag a beaten man between them, half slumped over and supported by their metal gauntlets. Even malnourished and bruised as the man is, Boromir would recognize that body anywhere. His teeth grit together, while one of the guards fists his hand in the man’s dirtied, honey-brown hair. The man hisses in pain, wincing as his throat is arched taut and his face is exposed. 

Denethor makes an irritated noise, as though he hadn’t recognized his own son until presented with Faramir’s face. One guard flatly announces, “We’ve found him, my lord.” Their former captain. The man they all loved, all respected, until the ring’s dark power wove through Gondor like an insidious poison in the air. They push Faramir down, forcing him to kneel, And Boromir almost has to look away—it pains him to see his brother hurt. Faramir’s arms are bound behind his back, his tunic torn and his trousers ratty, his hair a mess around the fingers that hold it. No one but Boromir should ever be able to run their fingers through that hair, and he has to fight himself to stay in his seat and not rush over to push the metal beasts away. 

But Boromir knows better. He knows his place and the consequences for defying it. He’s the only one whom Denethor still listens to that he can be sure isn’t born of Mordor. He can’t risk his position, and he can only grimace while Denethor muses, “I have no use for this failure any more. My _true_ son has returned to me, with the prize I deserve, no less, and what has Faramir, _former_ captain of the guards, ever done for me?”

 _So_ much. More than Denethor will ever recognize. Boromir bites his tongue and forces himself to meet Faramir’s eyes, wanting to offer whatever comfort he can, but Faramir is only looking at their father. Even now, there’s a softness to his face: he _wants_ to be loved, accepted. 

That will never happen. Not from Denethor, who waves a hand dismissively and says, “Kill him.”

The guards reach for their swords, and Boromir quickly orders, “ _No._ ” Fighting the panic, he says with every bit of power and authority he can muster, “Bring him to me.”

The guards hesitate. They look at one another, then at Denethor. He doesn’t protest right away, simply stares coldly at Boromir, so they grab Faramir by his hair and shoulder and jerk him up to his feet, pushing him over. They don’t even bother to walk all the way, and soon he’s stumbling right over Boromir’s lap. Boromir pulls him up, worried at how easy it is, how light Faramir’s become. He scoops Faramir into him by the legs and back, and he holds his little brother protectively against his chest before announcing across the table, “I will have Faramir for a wife.”

Denethor snorts, half as though he thinks it a joke and half as though he hates them both. Faramir looks up at Boromir in surprise, and Boromir wants desperately to pet him and tell him things will be all right, but Boromir is stuck staring down their father, and he insists fiercely, “I will take whatever woman you should choose, and should want me in return, to carry your line. But if I am to have a partner to lie with, it will be Faramir.”

Even as he talks, he’s working at the splintering ropes that hold Faramir’s wrists together Faramir squirms to help. Denethor snarls, “I do not find your jests amusing. You could have any woman in this city, in any city, and you choose... _that_? And your own brother, no less.” Though he speaks of it as if _Faramir_ himself is a worse offense than their blood. “It’s an abomination!”

As Boromir pulls loose the last of the ropes, he mutters below his breath, “Gondor has done many things of late that qualify as abominations.”

Denethor makes a growing sound that barely qualifies as human. Boromir can’t help but pull Faramir tighter into him, wanting to shield his little brother from their father’s wrath, just as he’s had to do since childhood. Holding Faramir in his arms is nothing knew, though he’s never made such absurd statements aloud. He only does so now because he knows that having Faramir remain an equal simply isn’t an option anymore, and all he can do now is try to convince his father that Faramir is no threat, that there is no harm in letting his beloved first born be _happy_.

Boromir has only ever been happy under the spell of Faramir’s smiles, and it’s pained him to have gone so long without. 

Denethor seems to consider this a moment, only to push up from his chair. Malevolence is clear on his face, but it so often is. As he turns from the table, Boromir cautiously asks, “Where are you going?”

Without looking back, Denethor tightly replies, “Because I love you, my son, I will allow you to have your _plaything_. ...But I will have to pray for the Gods to forgive me for it.” He rolls his eyes like a petulant, perpetually-bitter child and turns to storm away, leaving Boromir to marvel at the fact that his father used the word ‘love.’

Denethor slams the doors when he’s passed through them, and when Boromir turns to look at the other side of the hall, the guards that brought Faramir in have disappeared. It leaves the two brothers alone together, Faramir still sprawled in Boromir’s lap and Boromir still clutching tightly to him. He’s afraid to let go, lest their father rush back to tear them apart.

When he looks at Faramir, mingled fear and relief dances over Faramir’s strong but gentle face. He’s handsome, even bruised as he is, mud caked on in certain places and dried blood in others. He smells like dirt and old sweat, but Boromir’s all too happy to lean in and inhale it deeply. He lifts his hand to cup Faramir’s cheek, thumb lovingly brushing over the soft skin, and he places a kiss on the other side of Faramir’s nose, breathing out, “I am sorry, little brother.”

Faramir lifts his hand to place over Boromir’s, but the first thing he asks is, “Is the God he prays to Sauron?”

Boromir bitterly sighs, “Not yet.” Though he knows the joke is not far off. His hands slip away, falling down Faramir’s lithe form, once trim with muscles and now worryingly thin. Boromir reaches past him for a strawberry out of the bowl, and he brings it back to lift towards Faramir’s mouth. Faramir opens obediently, and Boromir can’t help but press the rosy fruit down into Faramir’s bottom lip, his pulse quickening at the sight. Then Faramir bites it loose, most of it in one chunk, leaving just the little green stem. Boromir tosses that back towards his plate and watches Faramir chew, a little bit of red juice pooling at the corner of his lips. 

He’s so devastatingly beautiful. It isn’t fair that he should be hurt. Faramir kisses his chin, and he wants to say so many things, so very many _apologies_ , but years of pride under his father’s reign have hardened him from gushing. Faramir only finishes his food and lifts his arms to wrap around Boromir’s shoulders. He pulls himself in, the two of them connected, like they’ve always been. He licks his lips and hesitates, then forces out, “Boromir, you _must_ take the ring from our father. He becomes more an instrument of evil every day. Once, he might’ve used the ring to stand against Mordor, but in truth, Gondor is not far from simply an extension of Sauron’s own hand.”

Boromir _knows this._ The cloud in his mind buzzes illusively, preventing him from truly grasping on, but he _knows_ everything is wrong. He can feel it. But he’s so conflicted, and he doesn’t even know why—the power of the ring, he thinks, clawing at him, even from a distance, over the time he carried it around his neck and now in every moment that he stands in the steward’s presence. He hisses a tight, “It is my doing...”

“It’s not your fault,” Faramir murmurs. He’s too sweet for the darkness in Boromir. “You are a good man, Boromir. You’ve resisted its corruption, I know you have and you can.”

Boromir chuckles bitterly. “Evidently not; I have my own brother in my lap.” 

And even as he basks in Faramir’s praise, he can’t help but think, _know_ , that if he wanted _more_ , he could have it. A surge of desire jolts through him: if he did take the ring for his own, he could truly have Faramir for his plaything—he could have anyone he wanted. But there is none more lovely to him than his little brother, whom he’s wanted all his life. He could always have Faramir at his side, even at his feet, for him to bury his flesh inside, to fill with his seed. Faramir would be safe from their father, perhaps forever left in Boromir’s bed, left to warm his sheets and welcome him home, safe from all the world, just for Boromir’s eyes and hands...

His hands wrest at Faramir’s sides as he thinks it, palms moving in little circles, wondering what it would be like to smooth over flesh that _belonged_ to him. 

Boromir shivers and uses everything he has to push the dark thoughts away. Like reading his mind, Faramir whispers, “That is not a dark thought. We’ve always been close.” He tilts his head as though to demonstrate, pressing forward to give Boromir a light, chaste kiss. They’ve never had one quite like this before, although they’ve come close many times, and it doesn’t feel at all unnatural or strange. Feeling Faramir’s lips on his sets Boromir’s blood on fire, and his fingers tighten in Faramir’s flesh as Faramir pulls away again. Boromir’s breath hitches. 

Boromir admits, “I’ve always wanted you.” Faramir must know that. He thinks they’ve both always known. He presses his own lips sincerely back, and they linger, mouths opening just a little bit for tongues to push out, for Boromir to tilt his head more and rub the stubble on his chin through Faramir’s. When Boromir reaches up to thread his fingers through Faramir’s hair, it’s a little sticky, knotted, but he plays with it nonetheless. He’ll have to brush it later, when he gets the chance, when he’s washed Faramir off properly and given him proper clothes. Until then, he breaks the kiss long enough to promise, “I won’t let our father hurt you.”

“You never have,” Faramir murmurs. Boromir knows that can’t be true, and certainly not emotionally. He kisses Faramir all the same; now he can’t seem to stop. Faramir is warm against him, growing a little heavy but fitting so very _right_ in his lap. 

This round lasts longer, going and going, Boromir tasting every bit of his brother’s mouth and nipping at his lips, suckling on his tongue. Faramir needs a good shave, but Boromir will do that for him after. For now, they kiss and touch, their hips starting to rock together, Faramir grinding his crotch down into Boromir’s. Boromir hardens quickly, and he can feel that Faramir’s following. 

He mutters between kisses, “When he returns, you should slip under the table to keep out of sight—it might not be safe to go back to my quarters alone.” Faramir nods, ready to listen to his older brother, like he always does. Boromir gets a spark of pride. In truth, he would prefer to have Faramir remain near himself, because he never wants Faramir to be away from his side. 

He’s glad that Faramir escaped Denethor’s first manhunt, of course, that he evaded capture, imprisonment, torture, and all the other monstrosities the steward of Gondor promised. But another part of Boromir is glad to have his brother back in his arms. 

Faramir nods slowly. He says, full of gravity and confidence, “I know you will do the right thing.”

Boromir wishes he could be so certain.

He means to kiss Faramir again, but Faramir lifts up, readjusting himself to throw one leg across Boromir’s lap, straddling him properly. Faramir’s arms return to Boromir’s shoulders and neck, and they’re kissing at a better angle, with Faramir lifting up on his knees and squeezing his thighs around Boromir’s. A shiver of delight runs down Boromir’s spine. 

When that one ends, Boromir looks into Faramir’s face, and he remembers what they’re fighting for: all the good in the world. Faramir sighs and leans his face against Boromir’s, their bodies slumping together in a tight hug that tries to meld them both into _one_.

Boromir knows that so long as he has his brother to guide him, he won’t let the darkness win.


End file.
